


Riders on the storm

by TheBlackHorizon



Category: The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: 1960s, All characters that are not from TBL are OCs, Alternate Universe - 1970s, Alternate Universe - Mob, F/M, Film Noir, Gun Violence, Italian Mafia, New York City, POV Third Person Omniscient, Raymond Reddington is Elizabeth Keen's Father, Romance, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:47:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25135627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBlackHorizon/pseuds/TheBlackHorizon
Summary: In the 60s and 70s, the Irish Mob and the Italian Mafia were at each others throats and a million and one stories were written in the process.This is one of them.
Relationships: Elizabeth Keen/Donald Ressler, Elizabeth Keen/Tom Keen | Jacob Phelps
Kudos: 15





	1. Prologue - Let me tell you a story

**Author's Note:**

> Any resemblance to actual persons is purely coincidental.

Hells Kitchen, NY  
March 1960

This is where our story begins, in a shithole west of Midtown Manhattan called Hell's Kitchen. The guy who named this poor assembly of streets and blocks must have had a good fucking sense of humor.

It's snowing, nothing unusual for the time of year, when a group of young Italians decide to rob a grocers store. Their car comes to a screeching halt outside the storefront and three of them storm inside, guns at the ready while the fourth remains in the car with the engine running. He lights a cigarette.  
Inside the store they shout for everyone to get down, women screech, bags full of groceries drop to the floor and spill their contents all over the tiles.  
The cashier opens the till at gunpoint, eyes big like saucers he mechanically removes bills with shaking hands and drops them into the bag the Italians tossed onto the counter.  
Its deadly silent in the store.  
They are about to leave when a siren wails in the distance and they all jump although its nowhere near to them, but it is enough for one of them to twitch and accidentally set off his rifle.  
A salve cuts through bags of flour and canned goods before it hits a man and his wife multiple times into their torsos.  
"Che merda!" one of the others shout and grabs the bag full of money.

Two pools of blood spread on the white tiles, merging into one between the two bodies. A boy comes crawling out from behind a shelf, shaken and scared to the core and after a second of bland staring cries like a demon had taken possession of his body.

The bodies have just been taken away when a tall man in a fine woolen coat approaches him, making the police officers present stand back with a motion of his hand.

He takes off his hat and crouches down in front if the boy "What's your name laddie?" he asks in a suprisingly tender voice.

"Donald Ressler, sir."

"Do you know who did this?"

"No sir."

"It were Italians. But don't worry boy, we'll take o' you." he rose from his position and spoke loudly for everyone to hear "The O'Gormans take care of the folks in their streets."

Donnie wasn't even Irish, his Mom and Dad had immigrated from Germany but Mrs. McLaren didn't care. She didn't give a damn thing about the Mob, not anymore, not since her own son had been a casuality of a fight with another gang. She gave him a roof over his scared little head like she had done with many misfits and orphans before and oh boy, I wonder what she would have to say if she was still amongst us.


	2. Pictures Of Matchstick Men

Hells Kitchen, 1963

It starts like every Mobsters story starts. 

The Irish were always looking for boys to run some errands, delivering packages here and there. 

Donnie had started out like one of those boys running around Hell's Kitchen with something tightly wrapped in brown paper clutched in his arms, never knowing what is was but always keen on the rewards. He was one of three boys with Mrs. McLaren. Julian, a boy of Irish descent whose father had been killed and his mother had died of broken heart not long after, he had been the one who knew where to get deliveries with a sweet reward. His Dad had owned a pub which was packed with mobsters every night, still was even now that the owner had changed. The third one was Aram, a boy from nowhere, who was too shy to join them and instead preferred to keep to himself. However, his ability to hide their cash was priceless and in return earned him a little share. They had earned themselves a few good slaps from Mrs. McLaren when she caught them skipping school, so they snuck out and made up shitty excuses. Pockets full of money Donnie and Julian felt like they owned the world. 

They didn't know shit. 

Months turned into years and soon the packages turned into small burglaries and eventually, after they somehow had managed to graduate school, Tommy O'Gorman waited for them outside Mrs. McLarens house. It was a simple job, collect protection money from local shop owners and discreetly take it to his office. Easy. The gun that came with it was cold and heavy in Dons hand and he exchanged a look with his best friend. 

"You'll have your money by tonight, Mr. O'Gorman." 

The mobster smiled "I knew I could count on you boys."

That day in 1965 marked the real beginning of the story I'm going to tell you. If you haven't figured out already, we're speaking of a time where the Italian Mafia and the Irish Mob fought over Hells Kitchen like two hookers over a fifty after a threesome. 

Julian and Don made their way up quickly, they didn't collect money for long before Tommy sent them out with a group of others to set an Italian warehouse ablaze down by the docks. The fire shone bright against the midnight black sky and they watched with stony faces as the screams of the few remaining men left inside echoed over the roar of the flames.

But remember, it was the era of Vietnam and they were no fortunate sons, at least Don wasn't. They drafted him in 1967.

The night before he shipped out they sat around the kitchen table at Mrs. McLarens, finished with their dinner there was nothing left to do to distract themselves from the truth. With a teary smile and a miserably attempt at a stern voice she told him to come back in one piece or else she would never welcome him inside her house anymore. 

Times were shit, and war was worse. 

Call him lucky, two years later he was back on American soil with a medical discharge in his pocket and nothing but the clothes on his back. Hippies were crowding the streets everywhere and he strode past them, still in uniform he averted his eyes. The war hadn't been kind on him, leaving his left thigh a mess of knotted scar tissue bad enough to end his service.

His steps lead him to the only home he'd ever known, Hell's Kitchen.


	3. G.I. Blues

June 1969

The sun set when he reached the familiar building. The door had been left ajar so he pushed it open without ringing the buzzer and made his way up the flights of stairs. He knew the way like the back of his hand, having spent countless days here his steps ed him up two flights of stairs to the door on the far end of the left side of the hallway. 

It took a couple of seconds for the door to open after he'd knocked, steps and a muffled curse could be heard before the chipped wood gave way to Julian Gale looking as dishevelled as ever. 

The two men looked at each other before Julians five o'clock shadow crinkled into a smile "Sneaky bastard." he opened the door further and moved so Don could enter "When d'you get back?"

"Just this morning." Don dropped his duffle bag next to the dresser in the hallway and shook his head at the two pin up pictures hung askew next to the stained mirror "Do you ever grow up?" 

"Where'd be the fun in that?" the other man called from the kitchen.

Julian grabbed two tumblers and sat down on the couch opposite from Don. He poured both of them a generous amount of Whiskey.

"So what's new?" Don asked, the heat of the drink pooling in his gut.

"Ah you know, the usual," Julian discarded the question with a wave of his hand and a swig of Whiskey "trouble with the Italians sticks to us like dog shit to a boot, bastards getting cheeky. Trying to gain ground but you know Tommy."

"Not gonna happen."

"Not gonna happen." he confirmed "been a bloody few weeks but what can I say. Bet it was a walk in the park compared to 'nam."

Don didn't answer straight away, instead he lit a cigarette and took a long drag. Julian looked at him through the smoke hanging in the silence, half expecting an answer but never getting one.

"So you going back or...?" he dragged out the last syllable, hoping he'd get an answer this time. 

"Nah." he shook his head and blew smoke to the side "got discharged."

Julian eyed him for a moment, debating wether to push the subject or not but eventually decided against it. "Got somewhere to stay?"

"Not yet. Aram took care of my money?"

Julian spread his arms with and smile "Course he did. All still there."

"Good."

Julia offered him his spare room for the night and he gladly accepted. After two years of barracks and tents in the middle of fucking nowhere any room with a proper bed would've done the job but Julians place had always felt like a second home. 

The room had four solid walls and the noise that drifted up from the street created the perfect white noise.

He startled awake in the middle of the night, echoes of screams in his head fading over his rapid breath. It took a moment to orient himself, Julians apartment, New York. Back home. Slowly he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, put his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands. For a couple of moments he stayed in this position, trying to calm his racing heart and hitching breath. Finally, after a few more agonising minutes, he felt himself again. He grabbed his pack of cigarettes from the bedside table and got up, pain shooting through his scarred thigh as he made his way to the window and he cursed under his breath. 

The window opened with a creak and he leaned onto the sill, lighting a cigarette with a click of his Zippo. The night air was still hot, the bricks beneath his arms radiating warmth from the day and he took a long drag savouring the burn in his lungs. The street was bathed in the rainbow glow of neon signs lining the street and far, far down the road ended by the sea. Sounds of cars and people filled the air, even in the middle of the night and not too far away a gun went off. 

Don let his gaze wander up and down the street, across the front of houses lining the street and up into the sky. There were far too many lights to see the stars, like a giant shield of light the city put up against the sky. 

According to Julian, nothing much had changed during his absence but he knew that could only partially be true. Julian was a man of many words, always had been the one to talk people in or out of anything, but also a man of little facts. That's why they'd been such a good team, one for words and one for deeds. 

Maybe nothing had changed for Julian, he still lived in the same apartment he had two years ago, still had the same leather jacket and the same hideous haircut but the city felt different somehow. 

Changed. 

He'd have to pay Aram a visit first thing in the morning, check his balance and then get rid of the shitty uniform and into some actual clothes again. 

Then visit Tommy. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is literally my first story in ages so please be kind ;)  
> Also, if you liked it leave a little something.  
> Cheers


End file.
